


After Midnight

by Kestrel337



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Community: come_at_once, Light D/s, M/M, Other, Outdoor Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-28
Updated: 2017-02-28
Packaged: 2018-09-27 10:24:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10010195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kestrel337/pseuds/Kestrel337
Summary: Written for the February 2017 Come at Once community challenge.Outdoor OT3 Sex. Checklists. Light D/s.My prompt was 'Moonlight', given me by the hardworking Moderator, SwissMarg.Beta read by the amazing LongHornLetters. If I didn't have her to beta my porn, I'd have to join Amway.





	

The encampment had finally fallen silent, fires allowed to burn down and tent flaps secured against the rising damp. From a shadowy thicket near the outer ring of tents, a tall figure unfolded itself. He stretched his long limbs, grimacing silently as the tension of long stillness was eased and released. A quick shake of his arms, and he began to drift through the scattered tents, gliding from one shadowy patch to another. His long cloak was flipped up, doubled over his shoulders to prevent the hem getting caught in the undergrowth. It wouldn’t do to be caught by the fighters sleeping behind and around him. Only when he was well away from the farthest tent did he allow himself to walk openly, striding along the rutted dirt track with his cloak falling to its full length and swirling around his feet. As he rounded a corner the young trees fell away, revealing a tall hill in the distance. Moonlight picked out a ring of standing stones at the summit, from which was drawn the name Druid’s Tor. The rendezvous point was a smaller ledge on the opposite side where a circle of evergreens stood sentinel. Once around the hill, he allowed himself to climb straight to the ledge, ignoring the unlikely possibility of anyone lurking around the base of the hill or inside the trees behind him. His partners were waiting, and it had been too long. From within the trees the cry of a nightjar rang out, spurring him on, making him reckless in his haste. 

There was nobody in the empty space between the pines. He turned, peering into the shadows until two figures slipped into the ring beside him. 

“Sherlock, love. No need to hurry. We said we’d wait.” The speaker was tall, his face hidden in the shadows of a plumed cavalier hat. 

“James. John.” He reached for them, drawing them into his arms. “It’s been too long.” When James’s hat bumped his forehead he snarled and knocked it unceremoniously to the ground. 

John chuckled. He’d forgone headwear,and his hair was silvery white in the moonlight. Sherlock thought he looked like some fey creature that belonged to the wild wind. “It’s only been a few hours.” 

Sherlock leaned into him and nearly growled. “You’re wearing tights and he’s wearing a kilt. It’s been five and a half hours, watching the pair of you jaunting about with nothing between my hands and your skin but distance, and this. This...blatant enticement.” He pulled up a bit the thin cotton between finger and thumb, and John shuddered at the pinch. “I’ve had to watch you strutting about like cock-of-the-walk for five hours, and nothing left to the imagination at all.” The next kiss was fierce. Sherlock pushed with his tongue, and John opened readily for him, nipping at the full lower lip. 

Then James was there, pulling Sherlock away by the shoulders, spinning him around and clasping him tightly, chest to chest. “Huh-uh. Hands off, mister. At least until we’ve had your report.” If the stern voice was belied by the twinkle in his pale eyes, it still had the intended effect. Sherlock shivered, and sighed, and tipped his head back in blatant invitation. It might have been a charming show of submission, but his eyes snapped with challenge.

James was having none of it, and grasped Sherlock’s chin with his leather clad left hand, pulling it back down and giving one hard squeeze. “Report. Now.” 

Behind them, John swore breathlessly, and James flicked a single warning glance in his direction before his expectant gaze turned back to Sherlock. 

He had to swallow the saliva that had pooled in his mouth before he could answer. “The seneschal has passed the documents to the bard, hidden in the bag of coins he gave her after the feast. I couldn’t get close enough to pick out her accent, but Russian is a good bet. I know which tent she’s in; we can sneak in tomorrow while her unit has breakfast.” 

“You. Are. Amazing.” James pulled Sherlock’s face up to his, holding eye contact until he twisted and took Sherlock’s mouth in a gentle kiss. The contrast between the soft pressure of his lips and the hard clasp of his hand left Sherlock gasping and John sucking in a hard breath. 

“God, James.” 

James broke away from Sherlock’s mouth and reached his free hand out for John, pulling him in for a kiss of his own. “Sherlock’s right, you know. Those tights are terribly distracting. And that codpiece is, well. What’s the opposite of unnoticable?”

John shrugged and said defensively, “It’s embellished. And if I hear one more remark about overcompensating…anyway, it has its uses.” The item in question was indeed memorable, the functional section covered completely by a padded extension of deep red velvet. He tucked his fingers into the rose embroidered panel that concealed a hidden compartment. “I think the line is meant to be ‘care to pick some flowers’, but maybe we can skip that.” He gestured over his shoulder, deeper into the clearing, and began walking backward with a teasing grin. 

Sensing that Sherlock needed a grounding touch just now, James slipped his hand into the collar of his cloak to curve around the back of his neck, turning him with his other hand and gently pushing him after John. The trees folded in around them, forming a space that was nearly cave-like in its isolation, and John -probably it was John; James took their well-being seriously, but John had the eye toward comfort- had spread a thick blanket over the deep bed of fallen pine needles. An empty pack rested to one side, and more blankets were piled at the foot of this make-shift bed. Best of all was the way their bolt-hole was open to the sky just beyond the edge of the blanket, and the moonlight poured down to kiss the boughs. 

James gave Sherlock’s neck a squeeze and pushed him forward. “He’s awfully tense, John. Think we can help him with that?” 

“Oh, I imagine so.” John had finally removed his hand from the front of his hose and held up several sample packets of lube. “Drop the cloak now, love.” 

Sherlock reached for the clasp. He wasn’t sure if it was the endearment or the tone of command that made his hands tremble. Or possibly it was James’s eyes, lightened by the moon to a rainwater grey. When the cloak fell heavily from his shoulders they narrowed, taking in his dark skinny jeans and flowing poet’s shirt. 

“And why do you get to wear jeans, when we had to wear this get-up?” 

“The cloak hides them. And because you like me in jeans, and I like you in a kilt.” Not quite sass, not with the upward curl at the end rendering it a more tentatively apologetic offering. Had he misread the boundaries?

But John was nodding in solemn agreement and James was snorting and explaining that proper kilts didn’t have elastic waistbands. “And if they’d given me a sporran, I’d’ve brought my own supplies, John. I know this one’s been on your list for a while. Can’t think why we didn’t get to it in Kandahar.”

“Snipers, probably.”

While they spoke, James was removing his ghilly laced shoes and slipping out of the fancy dress skirt the LARP’s organizers had loaned him. The billowing white shirt followed, and James stood proudly before them. It’d been a long time coming, this confidence in his own appearance, and John was quick to offer his appreciation by stepping close and running admiring hands and eyes over their lover, murmuring praises.

“So solid, James, so beautiful. And all ours, isn’t he, Sherlock?” 

Sherlock hummed agreement, and idly ran a fingertip up the front of his jeans to stir his banked arousal. Snug as they were, it wasn’t long before they became seriously uncomfortable. Briefly, he considered jumping ahead, but he knew the rules and didn’t want to spoil the mood. James would tell him when to undress. Or when to be undressed.

“John. Help him off with his trousers. Pants, too. Leave the shirt; that’s silk, isn’t it? Such vanity.” 

Sherlock watched James while John smoothed the jeans down his legs. His cock filled even further as the constricting denim came away, and James flushed as his own hung more heavily in response. 

“Now, that’s just lovely,” John had pulled off Sherlock’s pants, now, and his eyes were hot as they flickered between the two men before him. Sherlock gathered the hem of his shirt and pulled it behind his back, bunching the silk over his tight nipples. 

“John.” James didn’t have to say more than that. John knew what to do. Raising up from his knees, he pressed his mouth over one straining nub, breathing hot and damp through the fabric. The gradual cooling of the silk was a sweet torture when he repeated the motion on the other side. Then James brought his hands up, pulling John around for a kiss while he flicked his fingertips over the wet fabric. When Sherlock was gasping, when his cock had hardened and was standing proud, tenting the ridiculous shirt, James pulled away. “John is wearing too many clothes, I think.” He didn’t help, even when Sherlock pulled the knotted drawstring tighter rather than releasing it. “Slowly, Sherlock. Those aren’t his.” 

“Actually.” John’s voice was thin and breathless. “They are. Functional codpiece, no returns. Oh!” 

Sherlock had given up on untying the cords, had snatched up the small blade James had worn in his stockings. The drawstring parted beneath the blade’s bite and Sherlock smirked to see John’s cock twitch with excitement. 

“Knife down, Sherlock. No, I mean it,” James added, firmly, when Sherlock would have cut the ties holding the stuffed pouch in place. “Just pull them...yes, good job.” His hand rested briefly on Sherlock’s curls, an approving stroke that sent goose-flesh racing along Sherlock’s skin. 

John’s hips strained toward Sherlock’s open mouth, but James denied them both with a soft word. “That’ll go too quickly. Lie down, here, John. On your back, hands behind your head.” 

John did as he was told, pressing his feet flat against the soft blanket and letting his knees fall to either side. James guided Sherlock to lie on his side next to John, and took the other side himself. “Just one.” He held up his index finger and nodded to Sherlock, who took the hint and brought the pad of his own to the very base of John’s erection. He slowly traced the vein, pulling back when John twitched, pressing harder when his breathing slowed. 

James was watching John’s face, palming himself almost absently, licking his lips whenever Sherlock elicited a sigh or gasp or whimpering moan. Sherlock dared to reach across and roll one brown nipple between his thumb and forefinger, smiling delightedly when James’s breathing hitched and his eyes flickered almost shut. He shifted, scarred thigh pinning John’s leg beneath him and rutting lightly into the crease of his groin. 

Sherlock knew what was expected of him. He fumbled for one of the sachets of lube, tore it open with his teeth, and held it ready for James’s command. Soon enough, he was clenching his fist into the blanket above John’s shoulder and demanding, “Now. Now!” Sherlock cupped one hand to capture the overflow, and squeezed the packet over James’s straining cock. His reward was a filthy groan and John pulling one hand from beneath his head, reaching desperately for his own length. “Don’t...don’t let...him.” James was nearly beyond speech now, holding himself to a steady pace despite the growing urgency of each thrust. 

Sherlock captured John’s wrist and pushed it back over his head, holding firm as John began to writhe in desperation. “Soon, James,” he said. “He needs you.” 

“Needs...you...first.” James pulled away, deliberately squeezing himself and dragging in a few deep inhalations. His free hand tossed Sherlock another packet of lube, and he coated the fingers of one hand while James tenderly pulled John’s hips onto his thighs, drawing his cheeks apart for Sherlock’s probing finger. 

John grabbed at Sherlock, yanking one long thigh until Sherlock had straddled his chest, arse in the air and sack dangling enticingly over his parted lips. It was all he could do to concentrate on working John open while John suckled at his balls. He tipped his head, shooting a glance at James, watching them with hot eyes and rolling a condom -where had he hidden that?- over his purpling cock. He turned away, struggling, unable to reach until James reached slipped a hand between them to guide John’s length into his mouth. John shouted when Sherlock groaned with delight, and James gave his curls a quick tug. 

“None of that. Make it last, sweetheart.” The command was clear, even in a voice husky with want. Soon he was pulling Sherlock’s head away, lining himself up and easing himself into John’s body. 

The sight of him, sliding home as John struggled not to thrust into Sherlock’s mouth, was his undoing. He gasped a warning, cried out as John, rather than pulling away, sucked harder, pulling him along until all he knew was the burn of pleasure washing through his body. He’d have liked to stay there, softening against John’s tongue, But James’s thrusts were becoming erratic and he’d be too sensitive to ride out both of their orgasms. 

He pulled away, swinging his leg back and shuffling clumsily to collapse over John’s thigh and began running his tongue in long strokes over John’s hard cock. “Sherlock. James. Please! God, so close.” the rest of John’s words were garbled nonsense, his body speaking for him in the clenching of his thighs, the desperate rocking of his hips. Sherlock took him into his mouth once more, expertly flicking over his slit and rolling his tongue around the exposed head. It was a matter of timing now, of keeping John poised on a the knife edge of pleasure until James...yes, there, he was nearly gone, his hips snapping savagely forward, and Sherlock hollowed his cheeks and pulled, hard, until John shouted and clenched around James who was shouting in turn. It was a heady rush, the feeling that he’d made them both come, pulling one orgasm after the other, even if it’d been John clamping down on James while shooting down Sherlock’s throat. 

Then all was silent, save for the sounds of three men tidying up their clothing, sealing the used condom away in a zip-top bag for disposal in the morning, pulling the blankets around themselves and each other. 

“You’ll call the police tomorrow?” James would be glad to have this behind them, his friend cleared of wrongdoing and able to continue both work and hobby. 

“Hmm. Texted them before I came up here. They’ll come with when we search the tent; take that long to get the warrant sorted or we could’ve been done and home by breakfast.”

“Kind of glad, all things considered.” John’s voice was smug and sleepy and satiated. “Couple items off my list, this way.” 

Sherlock thought about that. The first one was obvious, he thought, but the second one eluded him. A glance over James’s chest showed him that John was smirking, just waiting for him to ask. He sighed, and turned it over a few more times. 

James’s voice was soft with affectionate exasperation when he said, “I’ll ask, since Sherlock won’t. Sex outside, and what’s the other one?”

“Always wondered what Live Action Role Playing was all about. Not my thing, I don’t think. Although the kilt was nice.” 

James smiled and dropped a kiss to each of them. “I’ll get a real one,” he promised, “and if Sherlock gets some trunk-hose, we can try a different sort of role playing. I think it’s time to get started on MY list.”


End file.
